


Once

by lazarus_girl



Series: GGSM Prompts [4]
Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-02
Updated: 2013-09-02
Packaged: 2017-12-25 08:29:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/950942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazarus_girl/pseuds/lazarus_girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Brittany is invited to speak at a prestigious physics conference in Washington DC, she invites Santana along for moral support. Over the course of the trip, the two reconnect and reach a place they never thought possible.</p><p>
  <i>“The invisible tether that’s always bound them is still there. Somehow. It bends, it twists, but it never breaks.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Once

**Author's Note:**

> Future fic. Follows canon up to the end of S4. A seriously overdue fill of [this](http://trainwrecky.livejournal.com/1320.html?thread=20264#t20264) GGSM prompt. Thank you, as ever, to [cargoes](http://cargoes.tumblr.com) for her beta skills and cheerleading, which kept me going through the very long writing process. I hope the end result warrants it. I couldn’t the opportunity to write MIT Brittany or ignore the nice little stroke of serendipity afforded by [this](http://carnap.umd.edu/philphysics/conference.html) real conference when I came across it. Click [here](https://31.media.tumblr.com/8245f0f925c667e9d7b8ff4548c495ab/tumblr_n3op35kTiC1txkikoo1_1280.png) to see the face claims of featured secondary characters.

***

 _“It isn't possible to love and part. You will wish that it was._  
 _You can transmute love, ignore it, muddle it, but you can_  
 _never pull it out of you. I know by experience that the poets_  
 _are right: love is eternal.”_  
– E.M. Forster, _A Room with a View._

***

The elevator is taking forever to arrive at their floor. It might look swanky – all mirrored trim, wood panelling and soft lighting, just like the rest of the hotel – but it’s slow as all hell. It’s half full, crawling along, and Santana’s starting to get impatient, because it’s late and these shoes are killing her, even if they do make her outfit. Classy and just the right side of sexy in a sleeveless shirt and pencil skirt, she’s gotten some compliments, and the good kind of lingering glances from men _and_ women. Brittany hasn’t taken her eyes off of her all day, so clearly it’s working for her too.

Regarding herself in the reflection of the elevator doors, objectively, it has to be said, she looks _good_ , and the highlights the girls at work talked her into look even better. She fits in with the feel of the place, if nothing else. There’s no way she could afford somewhere like this on her own (unless her father helped out with his credit card), and Brittany definitely can’t, not with all her tuition debts to clear. Thankfully, they don’t have to worry about that, since MIT is footing the bill for the entire thing, even the flights (the less said about that part of the trip, the better, but Brittany is still an awesome travel buddy even after all this time).

_“We’ll be fine, Santana. Don’t be scared. Hold my hand if you want, break it if you like, I have another one.”_

(She reached out blindly, feeling Brittany’s fingers lace with her own. Suddenly, she wasn’t scared anymore).

The call-turned-invite came as something of a surprise – even though it sounded planned on Brittany’s end – catching her off-guard mid-shift when she was sitting out back where they make the deliveries, smoking out her frustration at Camille and Nicole (the Cherry and Amber to her Rosario) for not pulling their weight. Santana can still remember Brittany’s voice on the line; sweet, soft, and cautiously optimistic as she told her about a science conference her favourite teacher, _the_ Professor Richard Vogel, was taking her to. Typically, Brittany played it down and made it sound like Santana would be gatecrashing some semi grown-up field trip. By the end of the conversation, something that was prefaced as “not a big deal” was just about the biggest deal ever. Brittany grudgingly revealed that not only was she going to this thing, she was presenting a paper – the youngest person to do so – and said presentation counted toward her grade for the class, whatever she’d do in grad school, and how it would be funded.

Though she’s pleased for Brittany, beyond proud and quietly flattered that she’s the one who Brittany chose to be a part of her personal cheer squad along with Professor Vogel and his wife Therese, Santana can’t help but think that Quinn might’ve been a better fit for all this. These are her kind of people, and not just because she’s on her way to graduating from Yale this summer with ridiculously high grades. But Brittany didn’t choose Quinn or any of her MIT friends, like her roommate Erin, or Alex and Joey, or any of the other people from the huge – and very random, but surprisingly cool – social circle she’s created out there, she chose her. No one else. That should be validation enough, but Santana still feels kind of a fraud amongst all these slightly eccentric geniuses – most of whom are old enough to be her father – because the most she knows about science comes from Bill Nye the Science Guy, that Carl Sagan dude, The Discovery Channel, and the vague memory of Mr Lasky’s classes (when she bothered to pay any real attention to things that weren’t tiny scrawled notes from Brittany slid across her desk surreptitiously).

_You + Me + Sweet Valley High after glee club?_

_Always B. My favourite time of day._

_Sweet lady kisses too?_

_Since you asked so nicely. Maybe._

_Mr Lasky is giving you his death glare._

_You’re a bad influence Brittany Susan Pierce._

_You love me._

(It took her a long time to write ‘I do’ in the scant space Brittany left her. She’d do it in a heartbeat now).

If nothing else, she can appreciate how much smarter than her everyone else here is, but at least no one can say she doesn’t know how to impress. She’s good in social situations like this, but underneath it all, she’s still just a college dropout-turned-Coyote destined to sing forever at open mics. As a result, pretty much all of this is lost on her, and it feels kind of a waste – discounting the whole being in Brittany’s company aspect of it, because that would never be a waste. It’s the kind of thing she gets on planes for when a bus or a train would do, wilfully ignoring her deep-seated fear of flying.

Weirdly, she and Brittany have been in contact more than they ever were before MIT – spoken, texted, emailed, Skyped and even visited each other – and they’re in a good place. Despite that, this feels like something a wife or a girlfriend should’ve be invited to, not a friend who isn’t really connected with this world at all. Brittany said it was because she couldn’t think of anyone she’d rather see in the audience when she got nervous or lost her place when reading, and Santana couldn’t argue with the logic, because her own is much the same. Brittany’s always her go-to person, first dial. Whenever it gets too much for her during a performance, Brittany’s face in the crowd is the one she focuses on to help her through the song.

If anyone else _had_ asked her, Santana would’ve laughed in their face, but because it was Brittany, she didn’t have the heart to refuse. Even now, after everything, Brittany is the one she drops everything for. Brittany is why she worked double shifts and cashed in what she had left of her vacation time. The invisible tether that’s always bound them is still there. Somehow. It bends, it twists, but it never breaks. Maybe all these science geeks should be talking about that and trying to deconstruct them instead of the philosophy of physics, because she sure as hell can’t explain it, and she’s been living through it for the past seven years. No matter what’s happened between them, they’ve always supported each other and everyone in their circle – they both still went to Regionals and Nationals this year, even though haven’t been part of New Directions for years now. Brittany’s come out to visit when she’s scored slots in shows. Brittany’s watched her YouTube videos and listened to her Garageband demos, firing back emails full of praise and suggestions for different things she should try. This is just Brittany’s version of that, but bigger and better than when she’s talked about her scores, papers, and research in the past.

_“I mean, if you’re busy or you can’t get off work. It’s OK.”_

_“Britt, it’s fine. I can make it happen. I’d love to come.”_

_“Really?”_

_“You can’t do this without your favourite cheerleader to shake her pom-poms, can you?”_

_“Wouldn’t be the same without you, Santana.”_

(Brittany’s voice carried the same lightness and warmth it always had. The butterflies that surge up unexpectedly whenever she hears her name still take her by surprise).

Washington is pretty cool, even if Santana hasn’t seen as much as she wanted to because Brittany’s itinerary has been pretty much packed the entire time. It’s involved a lot of sitting in stuffy conference rooms and listening to things she doesn’t entirely understand, but feeling strangely comfortable anyway, because of the company she’s had. Professor Vogel is just about the sweetest, strangest, and smartest, person Santana’s ever met in her life after Brittany. He’s just thoughtful and wise, even if he does lack common sense and wears crazy coloured odd socks. As for Therese, well, Santana has lot more common ground with her than she expected. She’s the real kind of classy, smart and elegant in a way Santana wishes she was. They both have a weakness for Neiman Marcus, and though she teaches music at The Boston Conservatoire, they love the same kind of music – even the cheesy pop – so Santana hasn’t gotten left behind in conversations at all, and she quickly saw the method in Brittany’s madness (even if she’d rather ignore the glaring similarities between both of their relationships). She did have to correct her on a few things though; because Therese already made the mistake of thinking she was Brittany’s girlfriend because they “looked so comfortable together.”

_“It’s … complicated, I guess. We have history, she’s really important to me.”_

_“I see that. You compliment each other. You’re like Brittany’s earth wire.”_

_“I am?”_

_“Her constant. You keep her grounded. It’s like Richard and I. We keep them from getting lost in their own heads. Most people love them for their mind. We love them for that and everything else that comes with it. That takes a special bond. A special kind of person.”_

(In the rare moments she’s found herself wide awake and staring up at the ceiling, Therese’s words and their truth are all she can hear).

They’ve always been comfortable, and it’s as big a problem as it’s always been. Fate keeps conspiring against them (or for them, depending on your perspective) and it’s really not helping. A mix-up with the room allocation meant that she and Brittany ended up sharing a room and a bed. If that wasn’t awkward enough – to the point they were walking around on eggshells and doing a really good impression of a middle school sleepover – it got about ten times worse when Santana woke up the next morning to find Brittany’s body curled completely into her side, holding her just like they used to sleep. It took altogether too long for Santana’s conscience to kick in and remind her that she should gently move Brittany’s arm away, and put some semblance of distance between them instead of wanting to pull her closer and kiss her awake like she had so many times before. They didn’t talk about it, even though she knew Brittany was faking being asleep. On the second night, they slept facing away from each other, but still ended up in exactly the same position. Except, this time, Santana didn’t move.

Overall, confusion about Brittany and exactly what’s going on between them aside, this trip’s been a lot of fun. During the official parts of the day, where Brittany’s needed to concentrate and take notes, and they aren’t really allowed to talk, Santana’s learned to, as Therese put it, “clap appreciatively,” because she didn’t really know what the etiquette was when each speaker finished their presentations. When it came to Brittany’s turn this afternoon, Santana felt like doing much more than that – giving her a standing ovation and cheering as loud as humanly possible, like they’re at Nationals or suddenly fourteen again watching Justin fucking Bieber or something, because the girl was amazing – but she managed to contain herself, because the last thing she wanted to do was embarrass her in front of all these people (Brittany hasn’t spoken about it directly, but Santana knows people still treat her like she’s just some ditzy blonde who they have to pat on the head and tolerate). Brittany’s proven, without a shadow of a doubt, that she deserves to be here, and that all the prizes she’s won aren’t the fluke some people might’ve thought.

Seeing her up there today at the lectern, completely in her element, totally at ease; confident and eloquent made Santana’s heart grow three sizes at least with pride – and part of her found the whole thing insanely hot, and not _just_ because Brittany’s rocking the whole jeans and blazer combo really well. There’s just something so alluring and truly beautiful about the way Brittany’s grown into herself. They used to spend so much time together, it was like living in close-up, and now Santana doesn’t get to see her so often, it’s like she gets the wider angle, and she can see details she couldn’t before.

While watching, she couldn’t help but think of the hours they spent together, drafting Brittany’s presidential speech back in high school, where Santana would sit Indian style on the bed and listen while Brittany paced up and down talking away, nervous and tripping over her words. They did that earlier this week too, in much the same positions back in their room. Except this time, practise was helped along by room service and a mini-bar raid that descended into an unexpected – but incredibly hot if belatedly awkward – makeout session that she’s still kind of processing, instead of stuffing themselves with candy, and crashing out on the bed to marathon _Sweet Valley High._

_“God, I drunk way too fucking much … I think I have my own issue with the duality of gravity, B.”_

_“You didn’t! They’re super small, so you drank less! And you’re really close to me so maybe I have one too. Gravity keeps wanting me to put my mouth on your mouth … Your lips are really kissable you know that?”_

_“Yeah … so are yours.”_

(She can still taste that endless string of kisses; their lips sticky with alcohol. Each one was maddeningly slow and full of knowing).

By the end of her presentation, Brittany had the whole room listening to her every word, rapt to attention. Therese was practically glowing with surrogate mother pride and Professor Vogel wasn’t the only one with tears in his eyes. Thankfully, Therese lent her waterproof mascara earlier in the day; else she would’ve had a serious case of panda eyes). All this is just proof of what Santana always knew. People throw that genius word around too freely, but Brittany actually _is_ one. She sees the world differently to most people, and Santana’s been lucky enough to learn a tiny little bit of a how that works.

Tomorrow, their last day here, is a free one, so they can do whatever they want. Right now, she wants to spend all of it locked in their hotel room, and the only thing she wants to be doing is Brittany. In the huge double bed, just to mess it all up and send all those pretty patterned cushions all over the place. On that ridiculously plush, soft carpet (screw the burn they’d get, she’ll kiss it all better) right under the window so they get the cold night air on their skin. In that roll top bath she’s been fantasizing about ever since a grinning Brittany pulled her into it fully clothed two days ago.

_“Brittany! Jesus fucking Christ?!”_

_“What’s wrong? Is the water too hot? You did ask. I thought it was better to show you.”_

_“Fuck you! No, I think it’s the whole wet while clothed aspect.”_

_“You never complained before!”_

_“Ha fucking ha!”_

(She pouted and Brittany dotted soapsuds on the end of her nose, setting off a splashing fight that ended with her mouth millimetres from Brittany’s).

Santana wants to do everything on every surface until Brittany can’t remember her own name, let alone anything about string theory or any other kind of physics. It’s bad; to be contemplating things like this, and she feels a little guilty. She’s not supposed to think about Brittany like that anymore, but being together on this mini vacation thing has made that really hard, because she’s picking up all these signals from Brittany and they’re not even hiding the fact they’re flirting with each other anymore.

Santana can feel Brittany’s eyes on the back of her head right now, watching her. She can _feel_ the want. The air feels heavy and thick in a way that’s nothing to do with being in a confined space, and everything to do with fact that their defences are down; giddy on the success of the day, maybe just a little too much champagne and some possibly ill-advised mojitos, but she’s still revelling in that whole legal drinker thing now they’re both twenty-one. She’s taken to trying out cocktails wherever she goes just to see how other bartenders mix them (nine times out of ten, Santana thinks her work is still better), and it’s fun to see what Brittany thinks of the results too. It’s kind of a tradition that they drink cosmos everywhere they go now, but Santana’s pleased that the first legit New York one that Brittany ever drank was one that she got to mix, right in the middle of the craziness that is Coyote Ugly on ladies night (that feels like an incredibly long time ago now).

She’s wishing that they’d taken the stairs now instead of the elevator. It’s only four flights, and she’s used to running up and down all day at work when they bring deliveries into the bar and she has to go to Roxy’s office upstairs and get her to sign off on them – because they could be doing other stuff right now. Like completely letting go of the fact they’re supposed to be just friends now, and anything else like the extra benefits they used to indulge in is seriously off-limits. Like giving in to what’s obviously there – has always been there between them – instead of worrying about what they should and shouldn’t do and what it might or might not mean.

They’ve had moments this week. Definite moments where lines have been blurred and come dangerously close to being crossed.

She was stupid, beyond stupid to put the brakes on things yesterday, even if Brittany’s picked up her change in mood and everything’s fine between them again. Things were so awkward, she had to apologise before right Brittany presented her paper this morning (because she continues to have _the_ worst timing ever), and it wasn’t until they got caught up in the celebratory mood later on that Brittany’s guard dropped and everything felt fine again. It all started because they went for dinner at this fancy restaurant last night with Professor Vogel – she feels weird calling him Richard, even though he keeps correcting her – and Therese, and it was going really well. The food was amazing, the wine was actually decent (not like the stuff her budget forces her into drinking when she throws dinner parties with Rachel and Kurt), and the conversation just flowed well between all of them, and it wasn’t like some awkward teacher-student thing anymore, they’re friends no, she thinks. Then, Brittany upped the ante, playing footsie with her under the table, and throwing all these loaded, flirtatious glances at her for the rest of the meal. They barely made it through the door of their hotel room before they were kissing; desperate and greedy and utterly filthy. One minute, Brittany was tugging at the zipper of Santana’s dress, and the next, Santana found herself backing away, telling her it “wasn’t a good idea.” The night ended with Brittany sleeping on the floor turned away from her, neither of them saying a word.

(Not so long ago, she could’ve sweet-talked Brittany back into bed, but the years have made them both wiser and a little harder than they used to be).

It’s not that she doesn’t want to sleep with Brittany, because _God_ everything in her is practically screaming at her just to do it and stop resisting. She wants Brittany to the point that it physically hurts – there will never be a time where that’s not possible – and she’s had to sneak into the bathroom at night sometimes, touching herself in secret, paranoid of being sprung. Though she’s not entirely sure why, since Brittany’s not the type to be shocked about that. It’s been a long time, _too_ long, since she’s been with someone (and on the rare occasions she has, all she can seem to do is compare them anyway), and she knows it’ll be good because Brittany just knows her so completely, but she’s terrified of ruining what’s taken them such a long time to rebuild over these last couple of years, and that it might not be the same between them.

Everyone keeps telling her – OK, her mom, Rachel, Kurt, and Quinn keep telling her – that there’s no real reason why she and Brittany can’t get back together and it’s ridiculous they’re not (it is). Brittany and Sam were over even before she got on the plane to Boston, and he turned out to be such a non-issue it’s kind of laughable, but life got in the way and they just got into this grind, and months turned into years. Brittany living her life in Boston; Santana living her life in New York, meeting often in the middle. They’ve become a different kind of constant in each other’s world, even if it is in name only.

In some ways, being back in Brittany’s orbit is as easy as breathing, and nothing’s changed at all. The time from Santana’s graduation to Brittany getting into MIT passed within the space of a breath: there was no painful separation, no loathing of distance, no long periods of silence or months (years) spent clawing back the closeness they used to take for granted once Brittany got out of Lima too. In others, it’s like all their history has been wiped, like they’re starting from day one, step one; uneasy and awkward, unsure of each other and how to be around each other, careful of re-crossing ancient blurred lines, because they haven’t dared to define things in solid terms like ‘friend.’ Even though Santana’s used that word an awful lot in reference to Brittany in the last few years, it doesn’t feel nearly the right size to convey the depth of her feelings, and yet, she can’t add the pivotal ‘girl’ to preface that either, because she doesn’t get to call Brittany that anymore. She gave up that right a long, long time ago. That didn’t seem to matter when they were in high school, and fooling around with Brittany was just for fun. But now, years later, adults in the real world, and Brittany is so much more to her than fun. It really does mean something, and it no longer pains her to admit it.

The elevator stops on the third floor, and a couple of people get out. There’s much more space now, with others having trickled away between floors. Santana didn’t even register the door opening and closing or that weird robotic announcement that cuts over the horrendous excuse for jazz being piped in somehow better the experience (it doesn’t, it’s just fucking irritating and makes her want to complain to the front desk and play them Miles Davis in the name of musical education).

When Brittany’s hand touches hers, their fingers briefly lacing together, Santana nearly dies on the spot, exhaling a long, shaky breath to cover her surprise. It takes every ounce of will she has not to turn around, grab Brittany, pin her against the wall of the elevator and kiss her for all she’s worth. Screw the people around them in fancy suits and too much cologne, the really weird sweaters with crazy hair like Einstein, only weirder, and the randomly overdressed women who look like they should be on one of those _Real Housewives_ shows; she just can’t keep up the pretence. All the near-misses and false starts are just a really painful reminder of what she lost – what she willingly let go of in the name of being mature and doing good.

Truthfully, she’s missed Brittany more than she ever thought possible. Brittany’s mouth, Brittany’s hands, Brittany’s tongue, Brittany’s taste. All of it, and every little thing Santana can’t name, like that fluttering feeling she still gets in her stomach whenever she sees Brittany’s name on her caller ID, or gets a text or sees her walk into the room. There’s always that moment where Santana re-realises for the hundredth (millionth?) time how beautiful Brittany is, and how no one else she’s half-heartedly attempted to date comes close.

She clears her throat, pushing herself against the elevator wall until the rail digs into her back, faintly hoping all those thoughts will drift clean out of her mind and ignoring how the faint, lingering scent of Brittany’s perfume is making her kind of crazy, and focussing on the motion of the red animated arrow at the top of the lift doors instead. It’s not long now. Not long at all, but that damn animation and the elevator itself seems to be moving slower than it was. She lets out a frustrated sigh, looking up at the ceiling and cursing under her breath – _Jesus fucking Christ_ – before tossing up an idle prayer to whoever might be listening (she’s been working hard enough to warrant the good karma, whatever). She’s sure she hears Brittany stifle a giggle. How does she always manage to get herself into these situations? How is it that Brittany always seems to know exactly what will happen before it happens? Maybe she’s just easy or easily led, but if she’s honest (and she’s gotten into the annoying habit of being that way these days) this entire week has been building towards _something_.

The announcement for their floor chimes and the elevator clears, leaving her and Brittany behind, doors clunking shut again before either of them makes a move. It dawns on Santana, as Brittany reaches forward innocently, like she’s going to press the button for the doors to open again, that this moment unfolding right before her eyes is the _something_. Brittany doesn’t push for the doors to hold, she lets them close and pushes the emergency stop instead. She and Brittany want the very same thing: each other.

Santana doesn’t care there’s an alarm blaring, and the pitch makes her ears hurt. She doesn’t even care there’s a security camera watching them and that the security guy will probably have the best shift of his life because of it. The only thing that matters is Brittany. She surges forward, pulling Brittany closer by the lapels of her blazer, and then there’s a huge rush of air as their mouths crush together in a fierce kiss. Brittany makes this surprised little sound – Santana’s never heard it before – and her hand flies to the back of Santana’s head, fingertips threading deep into her hair and mussing it up beyond all recognition. Santana’s the one who lands with her back against the elevator; the thud reverberating around them as she moans into Brittany’s mouth, still clinging tight to Brittany’s jacket. This time, Santana won’t be backing away or telling Brittany to stop. She needs her, she’s always needed her, but she’s never needed her more than she does right now.

Brittany’s hands drop away, drifting down to Santana’s hips, rounding the curve of her ass, and Santana breaks the kiss, letting out a shuddering breath. She can feel her control slipping away, but it doesn’t matter to her as much anymore. She expects Brittany to say something when she turns her head away, but she doesn’t. It’s what always used to happen when the wall she was pressed against was the last, always unused but somehow always occupied last stall in the girls’ bathroom at school. She always used to make Brittany stop because it was too much at once, overwhelming her completely. Brittany stirred too much in her that boys just couldn’t reach and it turns out other girls can’t either. No one kisses quite like her, no one touches quite like her, she knows it’s mutual from the way Brittany’s behaving – kissing Santana’s neck in this hungry, relentless way; tongue laving and teeth nipping as she works her way down. It’ll leave a mark or two, maybe match the one on her back, but she doesn’t care. Santana closes her eyes and her hands fall, surrendering in a way she never could all those years ago; head bouncing slightly off the elevator wall when she rests it back.

“Britt,” Santana murmurs, trying to focus as Brittany works the same path in reverse, dotting kisses along her jawline, finally near her mouth. “What …” she swallows hard, hand finding the back of Brittany’s head and cradling it as she kisses her again, eager and with little finesse, but she can’t seem to stop herself. “What are we doing?”

It’s a ridiculous question. She knows it is. They’re going to fuck each other senseless and it’s been painfully obvious how much they’ve both wanted this since their first night here. Santana’s amazed they’ve managed to hold out this long. She’s never been so turned on, so ready, so wet, and so wanting for Brittany, not even the first time they slept together; when it was over too quickly and her entire world got turned upside down. It’s never spun quite the same way since. Right now, Santana wouldn’t be surprised if Brittany dropped to her knees and went down on her. She wouldn’t stop her either. It’d just be another random location they can add to their long list of places where they’ve had sex, along with the janitors closet at school, the locker room, under the bleachers, bathroom stalls, and change rooms, just because impatience, horniness or general frustration got the better of them. The thin veneer of them being proper and adult started to crack the second she decided to give in to what she wanted.

“I don’t know,” Brittany mumbles between kisses, her voice low and husky with want, “but I really want to keep doing it.”

Brittany’s mouth is dipping lower, trailing kisses along Santana’s collarbone, and Santana knows what’s coming next. Brittany’s fingertips are already skating up her stomach, trailing along the buttons on her shirt. Those buttons will be popped open, and then Brittany’s mouth will be on her breasts, kissing and sucking at any skin she can reach. Santana wants it, she _really_ wants it to happen – and not just because Brittany’s always been obsessed with them, and it turns out every time she touches them, Santana’s brain short-circuits. Just the thought is making her wetter, but then she thinks about the cameras and the security guy, and that’s not what she wants at all. They’re past that. They’re better than that.

“Not here,” Santana begins, grudgingly. “Not like this.”

Brittany stills and steps back, and Santana gets a proper look at her; all flushed cheeks and messed up hair. It’s delicious, even under these lights. The neat little French braid she has isn’t so neat anymore, starting to unfurl.

“So, where?” Brittany asks, looking utterly confused.

For a split-second, Santana can’t read her, and she wonders if Brittany’s thinking back to yesterday when she poured cold water over everything. That pick-up, put-down routine was always a bad habit, and an even worse ruse.

Santana waits a beat, tongue darting out to wet her lips before she pushes off the elevator wall and closes the gap between them both. Some ruses, like testing Brittany’s patience and not her kindness, can be fun.

“I was thinking,” Santana starts, innocently, as she reaches to tuck a stray lock of hair behind Brittany’s ear. “Maybe somewhere like our hotel room,” she continues, tilting her head, considering.

She moves a step closer to Brittany, challenging her. Brittany’s breath hitches.

“Maybe on the floor?” Santana purrs. “Or in that huge armchair by the window?” At that Brittany shudders, her eyes wide. “Or maybe that big bed?”

“That could work.” Brittany nods, a mischievous glint in her eye. She knows the game. She knows it well. “I think.”

“ _I_ think,” Santana pauses for effect. She loves teasing Brittany like this. No one rises in the same way. “We’ve given the security guy enough to jerk off to, and I deserve you all to myself.” At this, Santana turns to leave, hitting the emergency stop to shut it off. “Naked,” she adds, with a smirk, whispering right into the shell of Brittany’s ear.

Santana holds her gaze for a moment too long, watching as Brittany bites her lip, contemplating.

As she steps over the threshold of the elevator, Santana’s sure she hears Brittany mutter a “fuck” under her breath. She says nothing more, smoothing her hair down and striding away confidently, listening to the sound of her heels tapping dully against the carpet. She walks with her head held higher, sways her hips a little more than necessary because she knows Brittany is watching, eyes fixed on her ass – another of her obsessions. She’s missed this. She’s missed the thrill; that kick of adrenaline that rushes her. That strange intoxicating feeling that comes with lusting after someone who wants you back just as much.

She gets an impressive distance down the hallway before Brittany catches up with her, sliding an arm around her waist. Brittany’s never been particularly possessive, but it feels like Santana’s being reclaimed or maybe Brittany’s just keeping hold to make sure this is real (Santana’s dreamed enough about moments like this over the years). They have to play it cool now, of course, all politeness and smiles when they pass the other guests and the room service guy, wheeling the trolley to a room just down from their own. Now Brittany’s here, and anticipation is starting to build, their room seems much farther away than before, and Santana has to fight the urge to take Brittany’s hand and run.

“Just so you know,” Brittany starts, casually, leaning closer. “I wanted this to happen from the second we walked into this hotel.”

“Oh really?” Santana nods along, as if they’re talking about something entirely more mundane.

Brittany’s grip around Santana’s waist tightens, just a little, and she purses her lips closed to hold back her surprise when she feels Brittany’s thumb sweep over the small patch of skin that’s exposed now her shirt’s started to come untucked.

“Really,” Brittany confirms. Out of the corner of her eye, Santana sees her smile in that wicked Brittany way. “And, I’ve never wanted to fuck you as bad as I do now,” she continues, low and seductive in her ear.

Santana’s witty reply dies on her tongue. Brittany rarely cusses, and saying fuck in reference to sex is rarer still. She’s the one with the potty mouth and the dirty talk (even though Brittany’s really good at it, and can be spectacularly filthy when she wants). She misses the cute little Brittanyisms sometimes (a lot of the time), even if they did make her feel silly at first. It was the language for their world and their secret. The kind of sex where they’d go at it like crazy until neither of them could move was ‘interesting lady sex.’ The kind where it was careful, sweet, drawn-out and utterly overwhelming was ‘making lady babies,’ so hearing neither of those things throws her entirely.

Before Santana has time to think of a response – her mind’s gone completely blank and she’s standing stock still, utterly thrown – Brittany’s off, fishing the key card for their room out of her jacket pocket, and she’s walking at twice the speed. Now, the key card for their room rests between her fingers, pointing out, drawing Santana in and tantalising her.

“If you beat me,” Brittany calls, smiling when she turns to face her. “You get to do whatever you want.”

Brittany’s smile widens, and she picks up her pace, not waiting for Santana to reply. It seems Brittany still likes her fun and games too.

“Ugh,” Santana groans. “Britt, I can’t run in these heels! They’re too high!” she whines.

Brittany stalls momentarily and turns to her again. “So take them off! You hate losing!”

And there it is, that classic Brittany Pierce Girl Scout singsong voice. The same voice that talked Santana into all that sex in tiny, claustrophobic and very public places. She’s pretty certain that if Brittany asked her to murder someone in that same tone, she’d do it and not think twice. Santana sighs, frustrated, because really, there’s no loss here. Either way, they get to have really good sex – it always is good, no matter what’s happening between them – but she can’t deny the appeal of being the one in charge, and Brittany knows it. She only wore them in the first place because they’re Brittany’s favourite, they make her legs look good, and it’s nice to be the same sort of height for once.

Santana _does_ hate losing, she does take them off and picks up her speed so she’s walking at a brisk pace, purposefully holding back from flat out running; conscious of not looking too desperate. Barely midway, she stops, failing miserably to keep from laughing. Brittany is the winner, because she made it first, but now she can’t even open the damn door, so it isn’t really a win at all. Their key card has been temperamental the entire time, even the replacement Brittany’s using. On the one hand, it means they can’t get in, but it also means they can’t get out, which, in certain situations, she’d be completely fine with, like if they were on the right side of that door, for instance. She takes her time walking down, watching Brittany try and try at the door. Three swipes later, they’ve drawn level, and it’s still showing a red light. Brittany’s jamming the thing back into the slot and muttering away to herself, getting angrier and angrier by the second; her patience rapidly wearing thin.

“You OK, B?” Santana asks, grinning as she leans against the wall, heels swinging idly from her fingers.

“It won’t swipe! Fuck it!” Brittany replies, exasperated, huffing out a breath.

“Lemme try,” Santana says, holding out her hand. “It likes me,” she shrugs, and Brittany rolls her eyes. They trade places and Santana tries. “Gotta be a little gentle, baby. Coax it.”

Santana keeps focussed on the lock, waiting for the light to change. She really didn’t mean to call her that. It just slipped out. Habit.

“I’ve heard that before,” Brittany comments airily, chuckling.

All at once, Brittany’s closer, moving the hair off of Santana’s neck, pressing light kisses there as her hands skim down Santana’s sides, resting on her hips. Santana blinks rapidly, trying not to react.

“Britt, people will see,” Santana warns, gritting her teeth in annoyance when the lock flashes red yet again.

“I’m coaxing you,” she replies, starting to pull the rest of Santana’s shirt free. “The sooner you open that door, the sooner you get to have me.”

Brittany’s right hand goes under Santana’s shirt, lightly stroking her lower back.

“Coaxing? And I thought you were just copping a feel!” Santana tries to sound neutral, like this isn’t affecting her at all, but she fails miserably, leaning back instinctively into Brittany’s touch, suppressing a moan.

“Mmm, I think so, and it seems to be working,” Brittany murmurs, kissing Santana’s shoulder. “You smell really good,” she comments, pressing closer to Santana and nuzzling into her neck, lips brushing against the skin. “Open that damn thing before I do you against the door!”

“Promise, promises, Brittany Pierce!” Santana laughs to herself, feeling Brittany smile against her skin. She’s keeping things light and flirtatious, but _God_ they need to be on the other side of the door, because the images flooding Santana’s brain are indecent.

Brittany better be ready, because once they get going, that’s it. Every beautiful inch of the body that’s pressed close, but not close enough, is hers for the taking, or rather, retaking. She can see it now, in her mind’s eye, Brittany naked on the bed waiting for her, legs spread, beckoning her forward with a crooked finger. Santana can almost taste her. She’s going to give it once last try before she gives in and goes to the reception desk. This time, she slides the card slower, keeping it steady with her other hand.

“Got it!” Santana exclaims, smirking triumphantly as she watches the light go green relieved when the handle finally gives against her hand. “Guess I win, huh?” she drawls, throwing her shoes into the room and reaching blindly for the light switch, turning the dimmer so it’s less harsh. Then, she turns back grabbing a fistful of Brittany’s t-shirt and dragging her inside. Brittany flips the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign over the handle, letting out this delicious little giggle that’s always driven Santana nuts.

The door is only just closed when she pins Brittany against it, cradling her face and kissing her deeply, tongue curling into Brittany’s waiting mouth. The low, content noise that comes from Brittany at the contact makes Santana’s stomach flip, urging her forward. They’ve never kissed like this before not even when it was just about the kissing and the sex. It’s hot, heavy, like someone just told them they’ll never be able to kiss again. There’s no sexy little striptease, it’s all desperate fumbling mixed in with greedy little pecks of kisses because neither of them want to break away, but they still want to be rid of their clothes. Santana claws at Brittany’s blazer, helping her out of it and tossing it vaguely toward a chair, and she’s vaguely aware of Brittany’s shoes thudding against the carpet when she’s pulled back in for another kiss, the roughness of it taking her by surprise.

Santana thinks they’ll stop any second, like last time, that there will be some question from Brittany – another second-guess – but there’s nothing. There’s only the twist and turn of the kiss as it stretches out, infinitely, and the pull of Brittany’s hands in her hair as they move closer to the bed, or what she thinks is the bed, because she’s kind of disoriented and everything that isn’t Brittany ceased to exist the second their lips touched again.

Her own hands are everywhere else, just needing to touch and to feel as their kisses drift from mouth to cheek to jawline, growing sloppier and mistimed as Santana tugs at Brittany’s shirt. She laughs a little when it gets tangled up in her hair and Brittany grunts in frustration, until she works it loose with her fingers. Santana knows that sound well. It means ‘get me naked please, I want you so bad I can’t think straight.’ All she can think is how right this feels and how stupid she’s been to deny this. To deny them. To deny herself this _pleasure_ for so long.

“I missed this. I missed us,” Brittany says, breathlessly, starting to unbutton Santana’s shirt.

“You have no idea,” Santana admits with a sigh, reaching up to kiss Brittany again, tugging Brittany’s bottom lip between both of her own and keeping it there, just because she can. Then, she tilts her head a fraction, making Brittany work for the kiss. She whines in frustration, and laughter bubbles up in Santana’s throat before she gives in and slides her tongue out to trace and then curl into Brittany’s mouth. There’s a deep, satisfied sigh, and then Brittany’s hands are grasping greedily at Santana’s shirt, already half undone, working quickly to finish the job. She pulls so hard at one of the buttons that it comes off completely, pinging off into the half-dark Santana’s sure she hears the cotton rip when it’s finally pulled away.

“Sorry,” Brittany whispers, sounding shocked and genuinely apologetic.

“I don’t care,” Santana murmurs, dipping her head to kiss Brittany’s breasts, trailing her tongue down the valley between them while her hands squeeze, so they start to spill from the cups of Brittany’s bra. Then, she traces her tongue over the lace, swirling it against Brittany’s nipples in turn, working them over and sucking until they stiffen. She’s tempted to do more, but she holds out, adding more pressure with each sweep. It’s always better that way.

“Fuck … Santana.”

She can hear her desperation easily enough, but she can feel it too. Santana closes her eyes, just for a moment, relishing the tremble in Brittany’s voice, the shakiness in her exhale; relishing even more that she’s causing it, feeling Brittany’s hand fly again to cradle her head. She carries on her descent, dropping to her knees and peppering kisses soft down Brittany’s stomach – those abs are still insane, still perfectly delicious, and still made for taking shots off – and trailing her fingertips along the same path, thumbs smoothing over Brittany’s hips, and then down lower, to cup right between Brittany’s legs, rubbing just a little.

Well, Brittany _did_ say she could do anything she wanted, and this is her day, so Santana thinks she’s deserving of the attention, no matter how much she – and her body – are protesting for more of it. Right now, all she wants to focus on is Brittany. Kissing her, touching her, tasting her (Brittany’s the least selfish person ever in bed, so Santana knows won’t be left wanting for long). To store away all the little changes in her that make this new and exciting, and drag all the familiar memories to the front of her mind that make this so comfortable and so _right_.

Santana glances up when Brittany lets out low moan of satisfaction, smiling against her skin, teeth nipping slightly. Oh, this is the girl she’s missed more than anything. The girl that made everything she did seem like magic. Except she’s not just this sweet, fragile little bird anymore, she’s strong, and powerful and _fucking_ sexy. Brittany knows it too.

“Take them off … Take them off … Please?” Brittany swallows, her voice hitting Santana’s favourite husky pitch. “I need you.”

Santana kisses just above the waistband of Brittany’s jeans, once, slow and deliberate, before she stands back up, hands sliding as she goes. It’s her turn to moan when Brittany’s mouth meets with hers, and she realises how much she’s missed kissing her. Brittany’s the only girl in the world who she could kiss, just kiss, for an entire night, and not care that nothing more happened. More will happen tonight though; they’re too far gone to stop now.

“Patience babe,” Santana smirks, throwing back a line Brittany’s been telling her forever.

There’s a purposeful pause, but then the reply Santana gave so often comes right back at her.

“You’re worth it,” Brittany whispers, hotly into her ear, and they’re kissing again, soft and slow, and Santana sighs into her mouth.

Brittany always remembers the little things. They were built on little things. Little things saved them (and sometimes broke them too).

They’ve hardly done anything and it’s as good as she remembers. Better, even, because they know all the tricks – how much to tease, when to kiss and when and when to touch – so it’s not awkward or weird either. The boundaries are set, but they trust each other enough to test them. Santana would never be like this with anyone else: never so open or giving or vulnerable. When they were in high school, it was a running joke. People used to say she was whipped, but and maybe she was, but what’s wrong with adoring the girl you’re in love with. Isn’t that the point?

Brittany reaches around, sliding the zipper on her skirt at roughly the same time as she pulls the one on Brittany’s jeans. The skirt drops easily, and Santana steps out of it without looking, but the jeans, not so much. They’re the skinny type that everyone is still wearing, and Brittany looks smoking hot in them, but they’re really hard to get off. Santana pulls harder, but they barely move.

“Britt, what the fuck?” she protests, frowning, and Brittany laughs.

“You said they make my ass look good,” Brittany shrugs innocently, but the glint in her eye gives her away.

“They _do_ , but I think we’d both like it better if we were naked. Fuck that, I _need_ you to be,” Santana frowns, voice laced with the wrong kind of frustration. “Lay down,” she continues, motioning for Brittany to move back.

“Sure,” Brittany cocks her head appreciatively, and Santana glances down at herself.

Bless those NYADA extension classes with Miss Lainer. Bless Coyote Ugly and the killer dance routine to Heart’s ‘Crazy on You’ that she choreographed with Camille. She’s in really good shape right now, like freshman year Cheerio shape. Even singing the song kicks her ass, because it’s near the top of her register (and she stubbornly refuses to let Rachel attempt to rearrange it or suggest an easier key), but it’s usually the one everyone and goes crazy for, literally. The way Brittany’s looking at her now makes it all worth it. She’d usually say something smart-ass and fish for a compliment or two, but this feels different. It doesn’t happen that often, but under the scrutiny of Brittany’s gaze, she feels strangely shy. Maybe it’s because Brittany’s the only girl she’s ever actually wanted to impress.

Even now, Brittany still manages to outdo her. With a devilish grin, she crawls on to the bed, up on all fours, throwing off the huge array of ornamental cushions, and then pushing back the bedclothes, so there was no point in the turndown service coming in at all. Santana isn’t so mad anymore, not when she has a fantastic view of that perfect, peachy little ass inches away from her. Brittany’s tantalising her on purpose, waving her ass in the air. Though she can’t see, she knows Brittany’s still smiling. She watches for a few moments longer, committing the whole visual to memory for future use – like when she’s in the shower at the loft and horny as hell, because she doesn’t dare get herself off without it being masked by running water – and then she takes off her bra (she always leaves her panties on, because that’s Brittany’s “favourite part of the unwrapping”), and climbs on to the bed herself, draping herself completely around Brittany, pressing as close as she can get, because she just needs it. Santana hears Brittany’s breath catch and she swallows hard. It’s good, beyond good, to be this close to her again, feeling that all too familiar warm, soft skin against her own.

Santana takes things slow, slower than necessary really, given the ache that’s been building steadily between her legs ever since they started making out in the elevator. It’s obvious that Brittany feels the same, but Santana can’t help herself. Sure, she could just dip a hand into her panties right now and come in record time, or dry hump her just to get the same result, but she’d be cheating herself out of something after waiting for it for so long. She’s never been afraid to chase down her own pleasure, but even when she was in full on selfish bitch mode back in high school, it was never at the expense of Brittany. To think there was time where she believed they could separate sex from love.

She likes to tease, and Brittany likes to be teased. Santana’s not about to disappoint on either score. First, she moves Brittany’s hair away so she can stroke and kiss wherever she wants, tracing haphazard patterns down Brittany’s back with her fingers, tongue trailing after in long deliberate strokes down her spine. She hears Brittany take a shallow little breath; she knows where this is going, and she trusts Santana to lead her there. Next, she easily unhooks Brittany’s bra and peels it away from her slowly. She makes a little show of it, even though Brittany can’t really see, grinning to herself as it falls from her fingers on top of the growing pile on the floor. The material is still warm, holding the heat from Brittany’s body, and Santana’s always loved this part of sex; the slow reveal. Sure, ripping each other’s clothes off is hot and all – especially when Brittany gets all grabby and dominant like before – but somehow, this is infinitely hotter. It means more. It feels like more, and she’s never been able to figure out why. Trust she figures, because Brittany’s letting her do what she wants to. She’s giving herself away without hesitation, and it’s been such a long time since that’s happened.

Santana moves back, surrounding Brittany again, kissing her shoulders, feather light; hands quickly sliding around to palm her breasts, kneading gently and rolling Brittany’s nipples between her fingertips, just how she likes. There’s no thought. No effort. All this is from memory. If there’s one thing Santana loves about Brittany, it’s her fearlessness when it comes to sex. Though she’s tender, she’s never timid – so Santana would always know what felt good to her and exactly what she liked, because Brittany would just tell her, without a hint of shame (Santana had enough for the both of them early on).

“You love that, don’t you?” she says, softly, dotting kisses on Brittany’s neck. “Is it making you wet? Are you wet for me, baby?” she asks, skating her left hand lower, inside Brittany’s jeans, stroking her over her panties; slow and light, just like Brittany loves to begin with, but she’s well past the warm-up stage. They both are.

“Yes … Yes. So wet … just for you …” Brittany swallows hard, trying to finish the sentence, “Always you.”

Santana didn’t really need an answer to the question, she can feel it already – Brittany’s underwear, her favourite, is completely ruined and it seems she doesn’t even care – and _God_ if that doesn’t turn her on even more. Her hips start to grind against Brittany’s ass unconsciously, and she rocks back into the unexpected contact, tilting her head back to kiss Santana, reaching behind and grabbing the back of her neck, nails digging in. Santana flinches at it, but this is stuff that she loves: the hickeys and the scratches and carpet burn even – but no bruises, she’s not into that shit – because there’s something so unapologetic and brazen about it that she never appreciated when she was young.

Brittany is redefining her territory. She can redefine it too.

When Santana withdraws her hand, Brittany grunts in frustration – and maybe annoyance – but she’ll make it up to her. She turns Brittany’s face toward her, capturing her lips roughly, sucking on Brittany’s bottom lip; reaching for the waistband of Brittany’s jeans again, pulling more forcefully this time. Brittany drops down on to her elbows, thrown. She laughs at it, rolling on to her back and lifting her hips as Santana keeps tugging, taking the jeans and panties down at the same time, impatient. Brittany fists grip the sheets to keep from falling off the bed, and she’s stifling yet more laughter.

In the end, Santana’s the one who ends up in a heap on the floor, puffing out an annoyed breath. “Never wear those fucking things in my presence again, B. Seriously,” Santana declares, scowling. “Fuck you,” she pauses to read the label in the back, turning it to the light, “ _Gap_ and your insanely tight jeans!” she makes a face, before throwing them as hard as she can towards the opposite side of the room.

Now she’s tense and wound up in entirely the wrong way. It’s wrecked the seductress vibe she had going, but Brittany doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, she seems to think it’s hilarious, sat watching with a hand over her mouth, barely able to contain her laughter.

“You’re so cute when you get mad,” Brittany comments with a smile, except it sounds a lot like ‘I really missed you’ instead.

Somehow Santana stays silent and resists the urge to share the very un-cute, incredibly R-rated thoughts she’s having as she drinks in the sight of Brittany, completely naked in front of her; those ridiculous jeans quickly forgotten.

“C’mere,” Brittany drawls, scooting right to the edge of bed, beckoning her from the floor with a wag of her finger. “Now, where were we before that little,” she pauses, “ _Interruption?_ Oh, yes … About here, I think,” she continues, in this little seductive purr Santana hasn’t heard before, trailing a finger down Santana’s stomach, stopping tantalisingly close to her panties. “You deserve some attention too.”

Brittany pulls Santana closer, so she’s standing right between her legs. Then, she dips her head; pressing kisses all over Santana’s stomach in random little patterns, tongue poking out to lick and teeth to nip every so often. Santana shudders under her touch, relaxing, unwinding; feeling her stomach muscles contract every time Brittany does it. She sighs contentedly, her hands finding Brittany’s hair, fingers running slowly through it as Brittany’s own drop down to her ass, smoothing against the curve and then skimming under her panties to grab it and pull her closer still.

“So hot,” Brittany breathes, sliding her hands out again and hooking her fingers into Santana’s panties. “So. Very. Hot,” she declares, inching the underwear down her legs and kissing the newly revealed skin as she goes.

“Britt,” Santana groans, elongating the word, her eyes fluttering closed, leaning into Brittany’s touch, her own hands dropping down and curling into fists at her sides, clutching at the sheet as she struggles to stay upright.

For a second, she thinks Brittany’s going to go down on her right there, just like in the elevator, it wouldn’t take much, but she stops tantalisingly short, her fingers letting go of Santana’s underwear, letting them pool at her feet and Santana steps out of them, her eyes never leaving Brittany’s as she slides back on to the bed in invitation, so obviously ready, barely able to keep the smile off her face. Whether it’s payback for earlier or just part of a bigger, devious little plan, Santana doesn’t much care. She’s got plans of her own, and they all end with Brittany moaning her name, over and over, loudly, as she comes; that beautiful, graceful body arching to meet hers.

“Your turn,” Santana smirks, closing the distance between them once more, “Right where I want you,” she continues, the smirk widening to a grin as she settles in Brittany’s lap, straddling her, shamelessly palming her breasts.

Brittany just nods, smiling; half dreamy, half devilish as she angles for another kiss. Santana’s hands drift up to cup her face, stroking it with her thumbs; delighting in the fact that Brittany has to tilt her head up, straining slightly because now she’s the one who’s taller. Brittany’s arm curls around her waist, keeping hold. When their lips touch, it’s different to before; less hungry, softer, but somehow still as passionate, still reaching somewhere that not one else can. For a while, they get lost in the sweep and pull of kissing each other; tongues teasing, stroking and exploring each other in a way they’d forgotten how to. All she can hear is the sound of their kissing: the rush of air when they twist and turn; Brittany’s soft, content little murmurs; her own, less so, needier, caught in her throat.

There’s still a very big part of her that can’t believe all this is happening, and that part of her gets louder when the rest of the world gets quiet – and that always happens whenever she’s with Brittany.

Just when Santana thinks this just might be getting a little too much for her to cope with, Brittany’s hand drops to Santana’s ass and grabs purposefully, making Santana rock against her in the same rhythm. Then, Brittany’s other arm wraps around her, and she pulls them both backwards. The change of angle, and the deep, lazy way Brittany’s kissing her takes Santana by surprise, moaning embarrassingly loud into Brittany’s mouth when Brittany’s legs wrap loosely around her waist, pulling her closer. It feels like they’ve kicked into a different gear. All that hot, heavy, lustful frenzied energy has burned itself out. The world has slowed too; time unwinding, just so they can have this moment – whatever it is, whatever it means – just once. Whether that’s once more as a new beginning or once more as an ending, Santana doesn’t know, but she wants to hold on to it for as long as she can.

As their kisses slow, Santana reaches, hands skating down the back of Brittany’s thighs, parting them gently. “Actually,” she begins, taking time to settle herself in between, so their bodies are almost pressed flush together. “I think this is where I wanted you,” she says, hushed, right in Brittany’s ear while she strokes the inside of Brittany’s left thigh with the back of her hand, inching closer. It’s the merest of touches, but still, her breath hitches.

“I think so too,” Brittany replies, brushing her lips against Santana’s, pulling back to look at her with a soft, awed expression Santana hasn’t seen in years as she runs her fingers through Santana’s hair. “Be gentle with me,” she smiles, but it’s shy, like the very first time they tried this. “It’s been … a while.”

“Always,” Santana breathes, nodding imperceptibly.

She presses a lingering kiss to Brittany’s lips as she shifts her weight, left hand gripping the headboard of the bed while the other stays on Brittany’s thigh, fingertips caressing lightly. She unexpectedly moans into Brittany’s mouth as their kiss deepens – heated and noisy and kind of sloppy, but neither of them wants to stop doing it – Brittany’s other leg sliding between both of hers, and she finds herself rocking her hips out of reflex, seeking friction, but she’s already too wet for it. When Santana slides her hand down in the scant space between their bodies, she can feel that Brittany is too, fingertips meeting with slick folds. She traces their shape, revelling in it. The power she feels in this moment is always kind of intoxicating, but it’s the trust that gets her now; that Brittany’s so willing to let go and surrender completely. She breaks away from her kissing just to watch, focusing on Brittany’s features; the smudge of bright red lipstick, kissed away long ago; the long lashes flickering fast; eyes dark with lust; her top lip caught between her teeth, and the splay of honey-blonde hair against the pillows. All hers. All beautiful, but not as beautiful as the delicious slick heat she’s created between Brittany’s legs. She’s smug one this time, smirking to herself that she's caused it. Proud that she still can.

“ ‘Tana, please,” Brittany groans, voice strained.

Brittany’s desperate to be touched now, starting to squirm underneath Santana in the way she’s always loved; hips lifting, searching for more. Santana gives it, cupping Brittany fully – a quick breath follows – and then dipping down to circle her clit. She moves with light strokes, practiced and easy. Brittany’s head tilts back, exposing her throat, ripe for kissing and it's delicious, so much so that she can't resist it, and she latches on; kissing at first, but then sucking hard, soothing with a lick of her tongue when her teeth nip, knowing she’ll leave a mark. Brittany lets out a whimper, half relief, half arousal. For reasons Santana could never figure out, Brittany’s always loved it if she starts with her right hand, building up until she switches to the left for more strength. It doesn’t seem enough for her today though, because there’s a hand wrapping round her wrist, gripping, urgent. She circles faster, pressing harder, her own hips mimicking the pace.

“You want me inside of you?”

It’s meant to be teasing, but as she exhales, question hanging between them, it’s Santana who’s turned on, flooding at the thought of touching Brittany so intimately after all this time.

“So bad.” Brittany says, hushed but heavy with want, tongue darting out to wet her lips.

Even though Brittany’s craving this, Santana goes slow, remembering her earlier promise, sliding one finger inside, but it’s easy, so easy, and Brittany makes a low, satisfied noise, so she adds another quickly. It’s still kind of mesmerising, doing this, sinking her fingers deeper inside of Brittany as she relaxes, legs opening unconsciously wider, back arching. Moving in a slow, steady rhythm, Santana’s already picturing what it looks like as her fingers slide in and out, in and out. She can hear how wet Brittany is as well as feel it.

“You feel so good,” she whispers, knowing how much Brittany loves when she talks, kissing her slow and open mouthed, swallowing the staccato breaths that come out every time they make contact.

Brittany’s hands slide down to her waist and then her ass for purchase, nails biting into her flesh, to the point that it kind of hurts. Trying to steady herself, she pushes her thigh up purposefully, and it gets Santana in exactly the right spot. It’s Brittany’s turn to swallow down her moans with fierce kisses, her hands coming back up to thread around Santana’s neck, one hand cradling the back of her head.

“Yes … yes,” Brittany calls out when Santana inches deeper, quickening her pace with harder thrusts as she presses her thumb against Brittany’s clit and circles, slip sliding against the wetness, feeling it grow like she never has before. “Oh fuck!”

The huskiness in Brittany’s voice makes Santana shiver. Hearing Brittany curse is still just about the hottest thing ever after looking at her completely naked.

“I love fucking you,” Santana says, the declaration falling from her lips before she realises.

“Right there … Don’t stop.”

This is the Brittany she really likes: flushed, leaning into her touch, clinging on to her for dear life, head turned away from her, eyes screwed shut, lips slightly parted. The Brittany that’s horny and desperate enough to make demands, because it means she’s right at the end of her rope. Usually, she can do just about anything, tease Brittany achingly slow toward orgasm with her mouth, or fuck hard and fast like they are now, headboard of the bed thudding against the wall and keeping time, she always loves it and she always comes, but there’s something about Brittany telling her what to do, making Santana bend to her will that turns her on even more than being in control of it all herself. There’s a telltale slip and slide to their movements now, and it’s not just Brittany. She rolls her hips harder and faster, hitting the exact same spot, over and over, and it’s working for her too. She has to slow a little, be careful, because she’s come riding Brittany like this before, hard and relentless, letting Brittany guide her, but she wants to wait and make it happen for Brittany first.

Santana starts to tire, the exertion and the speed of it getting too much. She slows just a little, pressing in with softer, more languid strokes; bracing herself against the headboard. The angle is making her wrist start to hurt, but Brittany is her focus, centered entirely on her pleasure. Her own hips still. Just watching Brittany like this is enough sometimes. They’re both panting for breath now, both closer to the edge than she thought, feeling the tightness in her own stomach.

“Come for me,” Santana breathes, burying her fingers as far as they’ll go. Brittany’s breath hitches, hips lifting.

With that, Santana curls her fingers, hitting the same spot again and again; sensitive and soft that drives Brittany totally crazy every time she goes near it. She knows Brittany’s teetering on the brink of it; starting to tighten around her fingers.

“I love watching you come,” she continues, her voice little more than a low drawl.

“Oh … Santana!”

The rest of whatever Brittany was going to say dies on her tongue.

Then it happens, and Santana drinks in every second of it. It’s always like a flash for Brittany, quick and intense; but for Santana, watching it happen, it unfolds in glorious slow-motion, and it’s exactly how she remembers: the way Brittany’s breathing changes; how different her name sounds somehow different tumbling from Brittany’s lips when her voice hits that particular pitch and she lets out a long groan; her entire body going stiff; and the relish of being inside her and feeling it all, tasting it on her fingers later – perfect, intoxicating and completely Brittany.

They say nothing for long moments, Santana determined to make it last as long as possible, helping her to ride it out with slower, gentler strokes until Brittany’s body goes slack against her own, breathing evening out again. Her hand drops away from the headboard to push back the hair from Brittany’s face, kissing her forehead stroking her still flushed cheeks. As she eases her fingers out of her, she coaxes Brittany with quick pecks of kisses, so she turns back to face her, and they make eye contact for the first time. Still neither of them speaks. Santana pulls Brittany close, and they kiss, long and deep, savouring the moment.

“You OK, baby?”

Brittany smiles, letting out a long breath. “More than.”

“Good,” Santana touches Brittany’s cheek again, and Brittany’s hand slides over hers.

“If you ever need an airplane buddy again, you know where I am,” Brittany giggles.

“I do,” Santana nods, smirking. “Well, we do have a flight back, you know, as much as I’d like to stay here.”

"And then there’s all the noisy, crowded subway rides we’ll take this summer." Brittany says, with a smile. “You'll need me for that too,” Brittany smiles, knowingly, kissing Santana on the lips once, measured and deliberate.

It's not 'I want you back.' It's not even 'Let's start again.' It sounds nothing like 'I love you,' but Santana hears all those things and more. She doesn’t need Brittany to say it, not anymore. It’s just something that’s there – that’s always been there – underneath it all, that they always feel and always know is true. That’s why being anything other than this, anything but together makes no sense. Brittany said once that her world only runs the right way when she was in it, and Santana finally understands what she meant.

"Definitely,” Santana replies, smiling softly before she reaches and pulls Brittany in for another kiss.

Before Santana realises, she’s flipped on to her back, and she lets out a squeak of surprise.

“I have some calming techniques we could work on. Fix those pre-flight jitters, maybe?” Brittany says, conversationally, eyes agleam as she traces idle patterns on Santana’s stomach when they grudgingly break the kiss.

“I’m open to that,” Santana grins, pressing another quick kiss to her lips.

“I thought you might be,” Brittany laughs lightly, playing along.

Santana smiles to herself as Brittany begins a slow descent down her body, marking out the path with kisses, knowing exactly where this will end. Brittany’s somehow careless and careful at once, doubling back, revelling in rediscovering her again; lingering in spots where Santana’s skin is most sensitive. Her tongue flicks out to swirl teasingly against Santana’s nipples in turn; pressing down before sucking at them greedily. Santana shudders at the sensation, biting down on her lip as she lets out a strangled noise that sounds a lot Brittany’s name.

“Mmm, still your favourite,” Brittany says against Santana’s skin, half statement, half question as she drifts down lower, Her hands staying in the same place, massaging Santana’s breasts, sounding fiercely territorial when she adds, “Still mine.”

Beyond that, Brittany’s barely doing anything but touching Santana’s skin, dotting open-mouthed kisses here and there, but it feels like much more than that. Brittany’s hands drop away from Santana’s breasts, kisses slowing as she reaches Santana’s hips, teeth nipping a little. At this, Santana’s breath catches and Brittany glances up at her, habit mostly, a glance that says ‘I’m going to go down on you now, and you’re going to feel amazing,’ because she doesn’t actually need to say those words anymore, but the intent is still there. Santana doesn’t need to say anything either. They’ve done a lot of stuff together, but this is still the thing she likes the most. She loves the feeling of Brittany inside of her, but nothing beats how Brittany’s mouth feels; nothing at all.

Just the image of it, conjured from Santana’s memory, is enough to make her groan.

“Oh,” Brittany says, hushed, lifting Santana’s legs and nudging them apart carefully. She’s so close that Santana can feel Brittany’s breath on her skin when she talks. “You so want this, don’t you?”

All she can do is hum in agreement, barely able to nod; knowing that Brittany can see how turned on she is; how wet and how wanting. It’s embarrassing really, and if it was anyone else, she _would_ be, but she knows Brittany understands, treating her as preciously as the very first time Santana gave in and let Brittany go down on her. It was too much, too intimate and too overwhelming – it still felt like that later, even if she never told Brittany as much – but right now, it’s the only thing she wants.

She closes her eyes, body tense in anticipation, because Brittany’s so ridiculously good at this, and it’s been forever. The moment Brittany touches her; sucking on her lips before her tongue starts drawing out tongue drawing long, broad strokes, Santana just about dies. It’s the gentleness, and the heat and the mere fact that Brittany’s _there_ , pressed so close, and she can’t make sense of it. Night after night, she’s dreamed of this, and finally it’s happening. They’ve found their way back to each other.

Santana reaches, grasping desperately for Brittany, fingers snagging into her hair careful not to push down on her head too much when Brittany changes angle, tongue swirling against Santana’s clit in tight circles before drawing it into her mouth and sucking relentlessly.

“Britt … ugh … so good.”

Just hearing the sound of it is making Santana even wetter.

Her hips move unconsciously, legs spreading wider, seeking more, and she shuts her eyes, grasping against the sheet for purchase. Brittany hooks one arm around Santana’s thigh, palm flat on her stomach, stroking feint patterns. Her other hand moves up to find Santana’s fingers, lacing then together, holding her steady. Santana concentrates on her breathing, keeping it long and even because she’s getting to that dizzy stage, and she’s too close to coming; and it’s going to be good, she just knows it. Her entire body is aching for release. Close, but not nearly close enough.

“Keep going, baby … just like that. Fuck … ”

After that she’s just reduced to making the content little noises she usually hears from Brittany but louder.

Brittany does this thing where she takes Santana about as close as she can get to coming without it happening, so when she actually does, it’s even better than it would’ve been. She didn’t used to like all the stop and start, frustrated and impatient, until Brittany finally got her way and Santana trusted her enough to relinquish control – the result was the best orgasm of her life, up until then, at least. Brittany’s doing it now; sensing when she needs to pull back and slow down or push forward and go faster, because she knows all of Santana’s tells, and seems to be relishing this even more than usual. She’s glad of it, glad that Brittany’s trying to make it last, because she doesn’t want this to stop either. It feels amazing – and that’s not the champagne or the moment or the fact she’s practically sex starved talking, it’s because it’s Brittany touching her and no one touches her like quite it – but she’s not sure how much longer she can hold out for.

“More … please … please.”

She doesn’t care that she’s begging for it between desperate, shallow breaths – there’s no point in pretending that she doesn’t need Brittany more than anything at this point – or that if Brittany gives her what she’s asking for, Santana will shatter entirely in no time at all. She just can’t wait. When Brittany’s tongue traces Santana in long slow strokes, delving as deep as it can go, lapping hard and fast while she sucks on her clit with the same intensity, it’s all Santana needs to tip her over the edge.

“Oh Britt … Jesus … _fuck_!” she cries out, her voice raspy and raw.

She hasn’t heard that sound in a long time.

Though she’s been aware of it building all this time, when she comes, it blindsides her, hitting her hard – harder than it ever has before – back arcing off the bed and hips rolling to meet Brittany’s mouth, willing her not to stop; wanting to keep hold of the feeling for as long as she can. Gasping for air, she grips Brittany’s hand to the point it probably hurts, but if she doesn’t keep hold of something, anything, it feels like she could just float away without warning.

She’s not sure how long she lies there, just listening to the sound of her own breathing rough and uneven, knowing that Brittany is watching her intently, movements tapering off little-by-little. Not much else registers beyond a vague awareness of Brittany moving upwards, deft fingertips replacing her mouth, circling Santana’s clit, bringing her down slow and drawing her pleasure out, not wanting it fade away too fast. Brittany’s touch is delicate, so delicate, but even that is a little too much.

Santana whimpers, on the verge of crying. It’s _so_ fucking cliché and she kind of hates herself – and she’s only ever cried once during sex; the very first time she let Brittany in completely – but she manages to hold back, just, squeezing her eyes shut tighter to stop it from happening.

“I’m right here … I’ve got you,” Brittany says, soft and reverent, seeming to sense it, threading her fingers through Santana’s hair and peppering her face with kisses. “I’ve got you, beautiful girl,” she continues, little more than a whisper.

Sticky, sweaty and breathless, and thinking herself anything but beautiful, Santana rolls on to her side, curling into Brittany. She lets herself be held, mostly because she’s still shaking and her entire body feels like liquid and she’s not really back in control of it yet; but mostly because she just misses being held, especially in moments like this; quiet and blissful, exhausted and sated, trying to process what’s happened, still basking in the glow of it all. It’s the closest she ever gets to feeling anything like perfect. When she opens her eyes, and exhales a long uneven breath, Brittany is right there, lying next to her. She smiles at Santana wondrously, like she’s seeing her again for the first time. Santana’s so overwhelmed, so completely over stimulated; that she doesn’t know what to do, and she can’t even begin to put how she feels into words.

Brittany says them for her. “Well, that was worth waiting for.”

Santana gives a slow nod, still recovering. “No kidding. B, you gotta warn a girl when you’re gonna bring your A game like that. I wasn’t ready!” she laughs, toying with the ends of Brittany’s hair to hide her embarrassment.

“So it was as good as you remember?” Brittany’s eyebrow quirks up, and she looks incredibly pleased with herself.

Usually, Santana would play things down, swat at her, but there’s no point in lying. Brittany’s well within her rights to look smug, Santana hasn’t come like that in a long time. They’ve both longed for this, craved it beyond words, what’s the point of holding anything back?

“Better,” Santana says, quickly, and then regrets how fast the answer came out. “It was always good with you, Britt, but _fuck_ that was ...” she tails off, unsure how to finish.

“I know,” Brittany nods, and presses a barely there kiss to her lips. “I know. God, why did we take so long to get back here?”

“No idea, but it’s way overdue,” Santana closes the small gap between them, brushing her lips against Brittany’s again, just because, and no one’s said they aren’t allowed to keep kissing, even if her lips feel all buzzed and bruised and she’s not sure she can even do it anymore.

“Let’s not wait so long next time,” Brittany chuckles, kissing Santana again as she brushes her fingers idly down Santana’s arm.

“I think we can make up for it,” Santana replies, teasingly, reaching out to trace Brittany’s collarbone.

Brittany smiles shyly, closing the distance between, nudging Santana’s nose in an Eskimo kiss. Before Santana realises, they’re kissing again, lazily and she can taste herself on Brittany’s tongue – something she kind of loves now, that used to freak her out completely – as it deepens. Her hands thread into Brittany’s hair as Brittany pulls her closer still, one hand on the small of her back, while the other rests on her cheek, caressing Santana’s face tenderly with her thumb. They’re completely entangled now, Santana’s leg resting over Brittany’s, foot tracing her ankle, so there’s barely any part of them that isn’t touching. They’re a tangle of limbs that she never wants to work out, not needing to know where Brittany ends and she begins, what’s left of the sheet twisting around them.

Out of everything she’s missed about Brittany, Santana realises that moments like this are the ones she’s longed for the most: just being with her like this alone together wrapped up in her; the feeling of completeness and contentment, and the real intimacy of being with someone she loves who loves her back just as much.

For all the drama they’ve had; the landmark moments that divide her life, Santana always thought that the day they’d get back together, when they’d become Brittany and Santana again would be equally huge, but it’s not like that at all. There’s no fanfare, no huge love confession, definitely and no tears. It’s just … happened, easy and effortless, without either of them purposefully setting out to do it. Santana’s not sure it’s possible to have an accidental reunion, but since their whole relationship stemmed from an accidental drunken kiss at a Cheerios party, where she let her guard drop, just once, she can’t help but think it’s appropriate. It’s the best mistake she ever made.

All the confusion and tension she’s been feeling since they arrived in Washington is gone. She feels centred and calm for the first time in, well, years, and she knows the feeling is mutual. The craziness will come when she goes back to MIT with Brittany to pack up her room for the summer and pick up her grades, and Erin goes nuts because she’s heard every tiny detail of their story and she’s been campaigning as hard as everyone else for them to get back together. The craziness will get even bigger and a lot a louder when they get back to New York and they have Rachel and Kurt clapping like seals squealing in stereo when they walk into the loft hand-in-hand. The craziness will hit its peak when everyone at work sees them together for the first time, and Camille will just lose her shit and persuade Brittany into becoming a Coyote like she keeps threatening to do. The crazy can wait. For now, Santana’s content to keep kissing until she falls asleep in Brittany’s arms and just appreciate the calm of this bed, of being Brittany’s again, and all the hours they have together before they’re forced to leave the safety of this room.


End file.
